


(you can have) the hate that it brings

by colonel_bastard



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Dry Humping, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Self-Hatred, Shame, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 00:09:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16252616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: After a sparring session with his partner, a young Rorschach struggles to hold Walter Kovacs at bay.





	(you can have) the hate that it brings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brodinsons (aeon_entwined)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/gifts).



> this one's for [brodinsons](http://brodinsons.tumblr.com), the ultimate bad influence, who ten years later dragged me all the way back to one of my nearest and dearest OTPs. thanks for the nudge, homie. i missed these sad gay vigilantes. 
> 
> set sometime during the original partnership, before the blair roche case. title taken from the nine inch nails song "[closer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccY25Cb3im0)."

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By the time he makes it back to his tenement house, he already knows it’s too late. It’s not going away this time. Not on its own. His desperate hope was that the long walk in the cold night air would be enough to calm his body, but the attempt was futile. In the past he might have gone out on patrol, scouring the dark alleys until he found a distraction, anything to relieve this awful tension. Tonight he’s too far gone for even that. Can’t bear to be seen in this condition. Have to be alone. He can’t even stop to hide his things in their usual safe place, and he’s obliged to scale the tenement building and enter his flat through the window in order to keep his face away from prying eyes.

Once inside he doesn't dare remove a single piece of his attire. He needs every scrap of it to hold all the fragments of himself together, the skin underneath his skin now stretched so tight that it feels apt to burst at any moment. 

In the darkness of his meager refuge, he paces the floor like a wounded animal, his gait stilted and uneven, his ramrod posture warped into a twisted hunch. He’s got both elbows dug into his belly, hard enough to hurt. Good trick to stave off hunger. Doesn’t work this time. _Wrong kind of hunger._ With every passing second, the ache only grows.

Stupid. Weak. They’ve sparred dozens of times before. Why now. Why _this._ He bows his head and groans as a wave of heat rushes through his body. It’s so hot. He’s suffocating. Frantic for any kind of reprieve, he sheds his hat and overcoat and jacket in rapid succession, every lost layer leaving him more exposed and less relieved than ever. He stops when he gets down to his shirtsleeves. If he goes much further, he won't be Rorschach anymore.

Be still. Be _still_. Tense and trembling with the effort, he forces his spine to uncurl from its pitiful slouch, his shoulders pulled back and his head held high. There he holds his post like a soldier, his eyes unfocused so he’s confronted with the inside of his face, a deliberate reminder of what really matters. His hands shake so he tightens them into fists, his breath hissing through clenched teeth. It hurts. It hurts so much. 

_It’s okay_ , Daniel’s voice says, somewhere in the corner of his mind.

Rorschach snarls and twists his head away from the sound, but it’s too late— the memory hits him like a hammer hits a window, and there’s nothing he can do to keep from shattering. 

Daniel was so _close_.

The rigid tower of his spine collapses and Rorschach crumples forward, his arms hugged around his stomach to stifle the sudden surge of agony. Under his face his teeth are bared, his eyes screwed shut in furious humiliation. Stupid. Weak. But Daniel was so close— so warm— so _heavy_ — the echo of his weight on Rorschach’s back is enough to make his legs go weak, and he staggers, almost loses his balance before he makes it to the edge of the bed and plants his hands, arms locked to brace himself upright. 

_His hands braced on the floor— Daniel’s weight on his back— their legs tangled up together—_

Fists clenched into the bare mattress, Rorschach whines and arches his back, blindly searching for an answering pressure behind it, his body aching when he finds nothing. _It hurts— it’s so hot_ — he squirms his hips in helpless anguish, the pressure between his legs mounting from merely painful to nigh unbearable.

_Daniel was so close— too close— the panic was sudden and indescribable, the effect instantaneous, and in one violent thrash Rorschach flipped onto his back, his whole body cocked like a gun in warning. Above him, Daniel was not afraid._

_**“Hey,”** he said, soft. **“It’s okay.”**_

_And without any force behind it, he laid one warm hand over Rorschach’s beating heart, urging it to be calm._

Alone in his desolate flat, Rorschach clings to the mattress and groans, his head hanging down between shaking arms. His hips thrust shallowly at the empty air, his knees on the verge of buckling. It _hurts_. If only he could— if he could just—

Shifting his weight over one arm, he brings one terrified hand up to his chest, touching the place where— the place where—

_Daniel’s hand. So warm. So gentle. So good. Never once raised against him. Laid over his beating heart— it’s a promise— I promise, Daniel—_

“ _Hnngh_ ,” Rorschach whines, his teeth clenched around a sob.

He forces his hand to move lower, creeping down the length of his shuddering chest. His belly jumps away from his fingertips when he reaches it, convulsively sucked in to avoid being touched. It takes all of his willpower to press his hand flat against his stomach. 

The resulting contact burns like a branding iron. 

With a startled yelp, he yanks his hand back in fear and disgust. The motion reverberates through his whole body in a violent spasm that ends up driving him down to his elbows. His face is inches from the mattress. Desperate for consolation, he rests his forehead against it— and then— without meaning to— he imagines his forehead resting against Daniel’s chest.

_Sturdy. Safe. Warm._

Dizzy with want, Rorschach nuzzles his face against the surface— _Daniel._

Daniel below him— _if Daniel were below him_ — 

He’s not strong enough to fight it anymore. Mortified, he closes his eyes and sinks down to his belly, until his groin finally presses against the edge of the mattress. 

The wave of relief is immediate and immense, his back arching in pleasure, his voice juddering out of him in a low, pathetic groan. It feels so _good_ — and that truth alone is enough to leave him pinned to the bed, paralyzed with shame. 

_Stupid. Weak._

_Hey_ , Daniel says, soft. _It’s okay._

Rorschach presses his face into the mattress, breathing hard. _If Daniel were below him_ — slow, deliberate, he braces his feet on the floor and rocks his hips against the edge of the bed, and the pressure— the friction— _Daniel_ —

It’s hopeless. A guttural sound of despair wrenches out of him, and in the next instant he tears off his face and throws it to the floor. It falls without protest, lifeless and vacant. Rorschach isn’t here. Rorschach would never be so weak. 

Only Walter would debase himself this way.

It’s Walter’s eyes that burn with tears. It’s Walter’s pathetic voice that mumbles a man’s name, muffled and indistinct. It’s Walter who has to bury his face in the filthy mattress, stifling his ugly cries as he sets to rutting against it like a dumb animal.

The motion is rough and clumsy, his body unpracticed, fumbling in the dark. He’s grinding with enough force that his shoes slide backwards across the floor, the pressure gradually decreasing until he scrambles closer again. His hands grope for purchase. First he’s clawing at the mattress— then all at once he’s clawing at his face, tearing at his hair, filled with rage at this stranger, this _trespasser._

_It’s okay_ , Daniel says, and Walter grabs the far side of the mattress instead, yanking himself against the bed so hard that he has to bite back a scream.

It’s still not enough. It’s not enough. The next thing Walter knows he’s facedown on the bed, flat on his belly while his hips rut in a frenzy, grinding down with all his weight. He makes a cage of his forearms to hide his face and the pathetic noises that he can't keep from making, all ragged gasps and wretched moans. The need for release beats against his skull and throbs in his groin— and he still can't seem to let go. All he can do is whine and squirm in agony, his legs churning, useless. 

_Hey_ , Daniel says, and he was so _close_ — his weight on Walter’s back— a hand creeps into Walter’s hair to grab a steadying fistful and for an instant he could almost believe that it’s really— _ah— Daniel_ —

Shoving his own face down into the mattress, Walter is overcome by his weakness. _It’s okay_ , Daniel says— and Walter knows that Daniel is good. So if Daniel says it’s okay, then does that mean— this is also good— _does that mean— oh— it feels so good_ —

His hips jerk and shudder as orgasm grabs hold of him with unfamiliar jaws, shaking his body like a rag doll. Walter comes with a muffled howl, one hand clenched in his hair and the other stuffed in his mouth, the knuckles riddled with teeth marks. He doesn't know how long it’s supposed to last. Seems to last forever. He can't breathe. Tears streak down his face. He can't even remember his name.

The fever breaks.

It’s Rorschach who returns to his senses. 

Calm at last. He allows himself to rest there, just long enough to catch his breath and gather his strength back from all the scattered corners. He tries not to move too much. When he does, all he can feel is the warm, wet proof of what he’s done, soaking into the front of his pants. He deserves it, of course. He just doesn't like it. 

Finally he trusts himself to sit up. His whole body aches like he’s been in a fight, his head pounding, his limbs mottled with unseen bruises. It’s painful to bend down to the floor, but he does it anyway— that’s where he left his face. 

Rorschach sits on the edge of the bed, carefully brushing the dust off of his dignity. He’s not thinking about anything else. There’s nothing to think about. And when his face is clean again he pulls it on and lets it make him clean again, too.

There’s nowhere he has to be. 

He can just sit here — all night, if he has to — and wait, unflinching, for his mistake to dry.

 

 

 

______________end.


End file.
